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Monday, 3 August 2009

A story born backwards 1.2


A STORY BORN BACKWARDS
She gave her sorriest thanks and left. It wasn't ridiculous enough; it was nostalgic, at best. There was nothing to do about it. There was no need for her in the “outside” world. It’s not that she didn't need the outside world; it’s just that regardless of how badly she needed it she got used to never using it. She’d find a way to get over her need for it. After all, the vicious voice of regret had been there for too long; it reminded her of all the things she might have done to end up in The Situation, whatever it was, wherever it was, wherever she was.
She’d always been a buck, you see. Well, maybe not always, only every time it mattered. When she knew she was about to be run over by a car, she just stood there, glad to be right about that fact. She was blinded by the pointless pride of knowing. You could call that a self- fulfilment prophecy, if you like. Standing there, waiting for a car to run over her just because she had the feeling that it might, staying there so long some car eventually did. Oddly enough, she never knew what hit her, only that it left her empty inside and lost outside.
She may have called wolf too early, she may have called wolf in vain. Maybe crying wolf just wasn't the thing to get the reaction she needed, and now it’s too late. She embraced disgrace only because she could see it coming, and it’s been too long since the unexpected brought her any joy. All happy memories became legend, strange even to remember because they just didn't feel real. When whatever happiness you ever felt suddenly loses its foundation, you start to wonder if you were ever truly happy at all.
When conversations must be held in dreams because no one will so much as utter a single unnecessary word outside, all hopes for real conversations are lost. Nonsensical, long, meaningful conversations have been dead for too long. Trying to invoke them is as futile as calling out "Unicorn!" and hoping one will come to you. Because you’re not really yelling "Unicorn!" anymore, you just can’t tell the difference. She should stop hoping to someday live in silly fantasies she chose over real life too long ago, but as it is, silly fantasies are the most like the real world she was fond of, a real world that is no longer real for her.
She must be mad, to see gaps so clearly when no one else would. Perhaps her problem was that she cared too much about what others considered insignificant. She just can’t give it a rest, and she keeps going over everything she did, and everything she does trying too hard to get things back to normal. But what is normal? Perhaps everything she wants was the oddity and now things have gone back to normal and she just hasn't grown used to it yet. But she never grew used to anything other than that. So she can only blame herself for every silly mistake. How could any apparently small mistake have such great consequences? Didn't anyone notice the difference? Was she stuck in a different time frame? Could it be possible to see an eye break free from the face it if you changed your point of view?
Whenever she was now, though it looked and felt sticky dark medieval time, like the fall of a Roman empire, but it wasn't. She could have run into a unicorn then if she'd called for it long enough. Nonsense still made sense back then. She was in the dark all right, so perhaps that’s why it felt like the dark Middle Ages. But no… medieval times were to be brought by someone else, by different events. This felt more like the French Revolution, where any stray thought of happiness, a luxury, got its head cut off.
Saying she left is a generous way to let her have some pride left. Seeing it was all ruined, she just turned her back on everything instead of fighting to make things better. Whether or not anyone had bothered to notice, she’d been fighting hard and harder because trying just made her look paranoid, which only helped her look more ridiculous yet, making matters worse. She wasn't one to be rude and she didn't like to show herself so melodramatic, so she figured thanks were due but she had better not say everything she really wanted to. Being that needy was embarrassing, and she had still some pride left to look after, so all her half-written tear-soaked letters were lost, whether unread by others or not was unknown to her. Thanks were due, and thanks would have to be enough so thanks would be just right.
It just took a very long time for her to make up her mind and give her thanks. This would bring closure as well as irrevocably prove her beyond help, which is what she feared the most. Deep down she still wanted to cry unicorn, deep down she thought she just might get an answer. Deeper inside, she knew she wouldn't. She knew it was lost, because even if she got an answer it couldn't make a difference anymore. She’d gotten some answers of sorts, too little too late, they say. It was only too true. The link was lost, the need was ache only on one side and inexistent on the other, resignation found on one side and replacements on the other. Answers right now were meaningless. Thanks weren't an answer because they weren't sought, or necessary, just due.
I wish this tale had a happy ending, I really do, but at best it’s just a half lit map of a troubled mind’s meanderings through guilt and poisonous hope for better, which only makes the map blurry. I suppose it doesn't exactly have a tragic ending either, because it doesn't have an ending whatsoever. It’s a story in progress, if a story at all.

Sunday, 2 August 2009

A story born backwards 1.1


A STORY BORN BACKWARDS
She gave her sorriest thanks and left. It wasn't ridiculous enough; it was nostalgic, at best. There was no need for her in the “outside” world. She’d find a way to get over her need for it. After all, the vicious voice grieving the loss had been there for too long; it reminded her of all the things she might have done to end up in The Situation, whatever it was, wherever it was, wherever she was.
She’d always been a buck, you see. Well, maybe not always, only every time it mattered. Mistaking the sound of the chilly wind with that of a car in the distance, she stopped mid-sentence in the road to somewhere, “knowing” a car was coming to run over her. She somehow rejoiced in “knowing”, thinking she knew, what was coming. You could call that a self- fulfilment prophecy, if you like. Standing there, waiting for a car to run over her just because she had the feeling that it might, staying there so long some car eventually did. Oddly enough, she never knew what hit her. Whether at the moon or at headlights, she just stood there staring, waiting: doing nothing. What was there to do?
She tried being the boy who cried wolf. How’s that for another self-fulfilment prophecy? However, instead of having a wolf eat her to teach her a lesson, she somehow fell in the middle of a medieval forest and joined a pack of wolves. Real or not, at least she knew she could see them, and that comforted her. She embraced disgrace only because she could see it coming, and it’s been too long since the unexpected brought her any joy. All happy memories became legend, strange even to remember because it just didn't feel real. She might as well have dreamt it all. She should stop hoping to someday live in silly fantasies she chose over real life too long ago.
Lost in The Situation, as far as her eyes will see, there’s only her pack of wolves and pink elephants. She must be mad, to see them so clearly when no one else would. How could any apparently small mistake have such great consequences? Didn't anyone notice the difference? Was she stuck in a different time frame? Could it be possible to see an eye break free of the face that held it if you changed your point of view?
She suffers lapses of spontaneous remembrance, and every memory stings when she realizes how deceptive her mind is.

Saturday, 1 August 2009

A story born backwards


A STORY BORN BACKWARDS
She gave her sorriest thanks and left. It wasn't ridiculous enough; it was nostalgic, at best. There was no need for her in the “outside” world. She’d find a way to get over her need for it. After all, the vicious voice grieving the loss had been there for too long; it reminded her of all the things she might have done to end up in The Situation, whatever it was, wherever it was, wherever she was.
She’d always been a buck, you see. Well, maybe not always, only every time it mattered. Mistaking the sound of the chilly wind with that of a car in the distance, she stopped mid-sentence in the road to somewhere, “knowing” a car was coming to run over her. She somehow rejoiced in “knowing,” thinking she knew, what was coming. You could call that a self- fulfilment prophecy, if you like. Standing there, waiting for a car to run over her just because she had the feeling that it might, staying there so long some car eventually did. Oddly enough, she never knew what hit her. Whether at the moon or at headlights, she just stood there staring, waiting: doing nothing. What was there to do?
She tried being the boy who cried wolf. How’s that for another self-fulfilment prophecy? However, instead of having a wolf eat her to teach her a lesson, she somehow fell in the middle of a medieval forest and joined a pack of wolves. Real or not, at least she knew she could see them, and that comforted her. She embraced disgrace only because she could see it coming, and it’s been too long since unexpected joy came her way, so all that became legend, strange even to remember because it just didn't feel real. She might as well have dreamed it all. Pain seems so much more real than joy when you realize whatever joy you ever had is gone and may have never been there at all.
Lost in The Situation, as far as her eyes will see, there’s only her pack of wolves and pink elephants. She must be mad, to see them so clearly when no one else would. She’s already mad, in many ways. She’s willing to deny all facts from the past that used to make her happy yet she’s willing to remember all her mistakes however small they could seem, for how could a mistake so apparently small have such great consequences?
She suffers lapses of spontaneous remembrance, suddenly wanting to shriek like a banshee because she can’t control the spurts of pointless, yet jagged, information any more than she can control her reaction to them.